


Drink to Forget

by cecilantro



Series: 100 Days Of Ficlets [20]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol, Background Beauregard/Yasha, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 07:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14014941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilantro/pseuds/cecilantro
Summary: “I find that if you can’t solve your problems effectively, it’s far easier to just drink and forget.” And he raises his glass to Caleb.Caleb eyes, scans him like he would a book, trying to read Molly like print on a page, because that’s an interesting thing to say.





	Drink to Forget

Life would never, truly, be simple. It wasn’t for anyone, and least of all for Caleb, when every breath and step that he took sent his wit-sharp mind back in time, spinball, past and present overlapping. Sometimes, at least, usually when he was softened by a hard flashback or cruel words. Cruel attitudes, anything that hurt.   
The sight of a city hurts Caleb’s eyes, and brain, all in the back front centre nowhere of his mind.   
Each step takes him harder, further, he feels his foot hit the floor and he inhales and the smell of late-night street food mingles with smoke from the burners and suddenly he’s home, he remembers, it’s not specific but the feeling alone is enough. He sees someone at the corner of his vision with short-cropped blonde hair and his step falters as for a second he sees not the street with all of his friends, but the crowds and square of the place he’d fucked it all up, and his breath stops. Molly is at his side, still dubious and judgemental but unable to shake off his natural instinct to help, he puts his hand to Caleb’s shoulder.   
“You know, I was thinking,” Molly talks languidly, but Caleb knows, “we should stick around for the harvest thing. Two weeks, was it?” he looks to Caleb, he wants an answer. It’s so hard for Caleb to find words, they stick in his throat, he forces himself,   
“ _ Ja _ , two weeks.”   
“We’ll have to solve our Evening Nip conundrum before then, I suppose, what do you think?”   
Caleb knows what Molly is doing, and even though it hurts, it’s far better than walking through a red sea of memories and trauma that could flood in on him any second.    
Molly’s hand slips down until his fingers tuck gently into the crook of Caleb’s elbow and he holds, grounding, Caleb finds it easier to shake his head and, like a duck scattering water, the memories fly off of him. He still feels sick, drained, and they dog at his heels like a shadow, but he looks around and sees the street they’re walking down.   
There’s a mixture of current emotions, the contempt, hurt, concern of Molly thinking Caleb was stealing from them, relief and gratitude for his help. He wants to clear up his problems but he can’t, and back in The Leaky Tap, Molly presses him into a chair and comes back with a whiskey that must have been expensive, it burns the back of his throat.    
“I find that if you can’t solve your problems effectively, it’s far easier to just drink and forget.” And he raises his glass to Caleb.   
Caleb eyes, scans him like he would a book, trying to read Molly like print on a page, because that’s an interesting thing to say. 

  
He’s never had whiskey like this before.

It’s become hard for Caleb to get drunk, since Molly’s advice tends to be something he unconsciously follows, but whatever Molly has given him knocks him flat on his ass and for one evening, life is simple.   
It’s past midnight.   
Save Jester, they are all completely hammered and if it wasn’t for the copious amount of gold being clinked Wessik’s way, something in the back of Caleb’s mind suggests they would be kicked out.   
As it is, his coat has been abandoned at the table over a sleeping Nott, as he, Molly, Beau, and Yasha make a scene out of dancing and tipping the band of minstrels.    
Caleb’s world spins, he’s laughing, everything is gaudy and bright. Beau steps back from him as Yasha places a hand gently on her shoulder, and when she kisses her it’s a wonderful surprise. Molly wolf whistles as he steps in to Caleb and takes his waist, a piss-poor imitation of a waltz, Caleb collapses into Molly’s arms, laughing so hard that tears cloud his eyes. He doesn’t remember why he’s laughing.   
The sad memories of the day, of his life, they still hover at the edge of his vision but he has a wall of fire in the form of honey-taste tinged whatever Molly is feeding him now. Molly pats at him until he pretends to collect himself and stands again, and they’re thrown back into the dance, one Caleb’s muscle memory knows well and Molly’s does not. They spin in wide arcs around Yasha and Beau, who are teasing them, a swat or three from Yasha at Molly’s ass or horns or, once, the edge of his coat as it billows.   
“Have you been drinking the same as me?” Caleb hears himself ask Molly.   
Their chests press together. Molly’s heart is beating so hard that Caleb can feel it.   
“No, love, I’ve been drinking  _ better. _ ” Molly smiles at him and they take another sharp, whirling twist turn, spiral, Yasha bats at the edge of Molly’s coat.   
Caleb is grinning, laughing, how was everything so wrong just a few hours ago? What had Molly done, again, that had hurt him? He doesn’t remember, and the hurt and sad feels so bad that Caleb frowns and shrugs it off, water from a duck’s back.   
“You alright there?” Molly stops them by the bar, keeps one hand on Caleb’s waist, moves the other to gesture and pay Wessik for a drink.   
Caleb forgets how words work, and by the time he remembers, Wessik has handed Molly two tiny glasses of ice-white something-or-other, Caleb would peg it as snow, but, made from vodka. He doesn’t have a fucking clue. He should, if he chose to press himself hard enough, but he’s done with being himself for a night.    
“What’s that?” He asks, and Molly gives him a devious grin. From her position with Beau a few feet away, Yasha gives an elated laugh, when Caleb looks, she’s staring at the drinks.   
“Really, Molly?” She asks, and he picks one up to raise it to her.    
“Of course, it’s a tradition in my family.”   
Yasha snorts something that sounds suspiciously like ‘bullshit’ and Caleb knows she’s watching, but Molly taps a glass toward him,   
“Want one?” He asks, and Caleb makes to grab the glass before he can spit out his  _ yes _ , Molly’s fingers get there first. His smile, smirk, lidded-eyes half dark and heavy, smile, he ‘Ah-ah-ah’s at Caleb, pulls it out of his reach. Caleb  _ whines _ .   
“Oh, there’s a noise I could get used to hearing.” Molly hums to him, the implication falls away for Caleb. The glass sinks a little lower.   
“Family tradition,” Molly tells him, gentle, and lifts the rim to Caleb’s lips, “You drink from me, and vice versa.”   
Yasha snorts again. Caleb recognises too late, because he’s opened and already taken whatever Molly has given him, quite willingly, and he reciprocates for the tiefling.   
Caleb swallows and turns fractionally to Yasha,   
“What?”   
“Tryst.” She replies, and there’s a memory for Caleb but he’s locked out of his own personality, so he asks again,   
“What?”   
“Not a family tradition, more a drink-specific one.” Molly smiles, leans in, “For lovers. Each one takes the shot from the other.”   
Caleb blinks slowly, his drink-addled mind mulling it over, Molly’s hand is still on his waist.   
“Oh!” It clicks, “Mollymauk, you,” and he sees the second of doubt and concern in Molly’s eyes before he starts laughing, “You tricked me! Unnecessarily, by, by the way.”   
“Didn’t think you’d take it if I told you.” Molly pulls him up again and they slip back into the wide arcs of shitty waltzing.   
“I would.” Caleb insists, earnest, “You’re  _ very _ attractive.”   
“Shallow, too? Thank you, dear.” Molly kisses his forehead, chin bumping his skull awkwardly as they’re moving.   
“Well, not just that, but to explain requires words. And I’m too slammed for words.” And he laughs, again, and Molly joins him, a few seconds before they sit back at the table.   
Jester eyes them.   
“I do not like the idea of not having you in my room.” She says, and it’s not a flirtation, it’s a judgement, “You’ll choke on your own tongues.”   
“Is that so?” Molly leans toward her, despite Caleb’s disapproving mewl, “I could choke on better, I suppose.”   
“Mollymauk.” Caleb half-laughs, half-frowns through the name, and Molly turns back. Jester, however, is frowning.   
“I think that’s enough for tonight, Fjord, I want Beau and Yasha, too. Can you deal with them?”   
“At your service.” Fjord fake-bows, he’s not sober himself, but he slips off as Jester stands and takes up Caleb’s coat, and Nott, and Molly’s scimitars.   
“Come on.” She tells them, “My room.”   
They follow her, through giggles, and help one another up the stairs without ever prying themselves apart. Whilst Jester is unlocking her door, Molly turns to Caleb with shock on his face.   
“I didn’t kiss you!” he exclaims. Jester shushes him. “I didn’t kiss you.” he repeats, quieter.   
“Wh- no, you, what?” Caleb is confused.   
“Part of the Tryst tradition, the drink, and then the kiss to, to, to seal it all in.” Molly frowns, and Caleb giggles, pulls him in the door as Jester pushes and holds it open for them. He finds his back soon pressed to a wall and his lips press to Molly’s, the taste of Tryst and whiskey and whatever else he’s been drinking on his lips, on his tongue, Jester makes a disgusted noise as she settles Nott onto her bed and climbs up with her back to the drunk, sleeping goblin.   
Yasha, Beau, and Fjord come in and Yasha whistles, “Get some, Molly.” And Beau smacks her gently.   
Molly remembers that he needs to breathe and pushes Caleb away, gently.   
He’s flushed bright pink, his hair is a mess and his arms are up around Molly’s shoulders and his face is smeared with mud but he’s  _ smiling _ and a pang in Molly hurts. Because it’s the alcohol, the locking out of the day and the trauma, that allows this.   
He swears to himself where he stands that he will fight and die beside Caleb to help him recover from whatever it is that hurts him as badly as he saw earlier in the evening.   
“Mollymauk?” Caleb asks, concerned, and Molly shakes himself,   
“Sorry.” He replies, and pulls Caleb toward the floor, where Fjord has thrown the bedrolls from Caleb and Molly’s bags, he’s set up and snoring softly by Jester’s bed already. Molly pats Caleb and tells him that he’ll sort out the bedrolls, and he finds a way to set them together, they climb in and sleep, so wrapped up in one another that, maybe, for a few seconds when they wake up, Caleb will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted happy caleb but i like to work into the canon timeline and right now there is. Not a lot of room for happy caleb.  
> (That Molly accused him of being shady still hurts me.)
> 
> I personally have also been struggling with my own weird 'flashbacks' that arent flashbacks lately and decided caleb suffers now too.  
> hope yall enjoyed


End file.
